“From which you have escaped!” she cried triumphantly, and clapped her hands. “Yes,” he agreed; but there was still in his face a certain anxiety which she perceived. “What is it, Henri?” she demanded. “You are not now in danger?” He threw off his preoccupation with a laugh of genuine amusement. “In danger?” he repeated. “No--or at least the only danger to which I am exposed at this moment, madame, is that of falling in love with you more violently than ever.” “For shame, sir!” she cried, blushing like a girl. “You forget that we are not alone.” “On the contrary,” he retorted, “I think our example a most excellent one for our young friends yonder;” and he looked across at us with beaming face, and with a meaning in his eyes which I tried in vain to fathom. “I hope they will profit by it.” “Monsieur! Monsieur!” protested madame, restraining him, yet unable to preserve a stern countenance. “Besides,” he added, laughing more and more, “it delights me to confuse that pert young lady sitting opposite us yonder--to make her blush, as she is doing at this moment,--and I swear, so is Tavernay! What a pair of children! If their parents had only had the good judgment to betroth them----” “Monsieur!” interrupted madame, more sharply. “You will not break your promise. There was to be no word----” “And I will say none; pardon me,” broke in M. le Comte. “The temptation was very great; and I hate to see a fellow-man barred out from Paradise;” and he looked at me, still laughing. But I bent above my plate, all pleasure in the meal struck from me, for suddenly I found myself groaning beneath my burden. Barred out from Paradise--how apt the words were!--and with bars that could never be removed. Ah, yes, if our parents---- “What is it, monsieur?” asked a low voice at my side, and I raised my eyes to find myself gazing into the depths of those I loved. “You sighed,” she added, seeing that I did not understand. “Did I?” I said, wondering somewhat that she remained so unruffled by the fire of raillery which had been turned upon her. “One is apt to sigh when there is something one desires very much and yet may not possess.” “Perhaps I can help you,” she suggested, and I saw again in her eyes that light which should have set me on my guard. “If it is my smelling-bottle----” “No, thank you,” I answered, with dignity. “I do not need it.” “So you refuse to confide in me, even when I offer you my aid?” “I fear you cannot aid me, mademoiselle; and if any one in the world could, it would be you.” “I am not fond of riddles, M. de Tavernay; and it seems to me that you have just propounded one.” “I spoke very seriously,” I said, “and as plainly as I could.” “Oh, you mean it is my wits which are deficient! I must say, monsieur----” “I meant nothing of the sort,” I protested. “I meant----”